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Would that I were dead as you are!
Wahonowin! Wahonowin!"

And he rush'd into the wigwam,
Saw the old Nokomis slowly
Rocking to and fro and moaning,
Saw his lovely Minnehaha
Lying dead and cold before him,
And his bursting heart within him
Utter'd such a cry of anguish,
That the forest moan'd and shudder'd,
That the very stars in heaven

Shook and trembled with his anguish.

10. Then he sat down still and speechless,
On the bed of Minnehaha,

At the feet of Laughing Water,
At those willing feet, that never
More would lightly run to meet him,
Never more would lightly follow.
With both hands his face he cover'd,
Seven long days and nights he sat there,
As if in a swoon he sat there,
Speechless, motionless, unconscious
Of the daylight or the darkness.

11. Then they buried Minnehaha;

In the snow a grave they made her,
In the forest deep and darksome,
Underneath the moaning hemlocks;
Clothed her in her richest garments.
Wrapp'd her in her robes of ermine,
Cover'd her with snow, like ermine:
Thus they buried Minnehaha.
And at night a fire was lighted,
On her grave four times was kindled,
For her soul upon its journey
To the Islands of the Blessèd.
From his doorway Hiawatha
Saw it burning in the forest,
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks;

From his sleepless bed uprising,
From the bed of Minnehaha,
Stood and watch'd it at the doorway,
That it might not be extinguish'd,
Might not leave her in the darkness.

12. "Farewell!" said he, "Minnehaha!
Farewell, O my Laughing Water!
All my heart is buried with you,
All my thoughts go onward with you!
Come not back again to labor,
Come not back again to suffer,
Where the Famine and the Fever
Wear the heart and waste the body.
Soon my task will be completed,
Soon your footsteps I shall follow
To the Islands of the Blessed,
To the Kingdom of Pone'mah,'
To the Land of the Hereafte:!"

H. W. LONGFELLOW."

174. ABRAHAM AND THE FIRE-WORSHIPER.

SCENE-The inside of a Tent, in which the Patriarch ABRAHAM and a PERSIAN TRAVELER, a Fire-Worshiper, are sitting awhile after supper.

Fire-Worshiper [aside]. What have I said, or done, that by degrees

Mine höst hath changed his gracious countenance,

Until he starèth on me, as in wrath!

Have I, 'twixt wake and sleep, lost his wise lōre?

Or sit I thus too long, and he himself

Would fain be sleeping? I will speak to that.
[Aloud.] Impute it, O my great and gracious lord.
Unto my feeble flesh, and not my folly,

If mine old eyelids droop against their will,
And I become as one that hath no sense

Even to the milk and honey of thy words.

'Po ne' mah, hereafter. See Biographical Sketch, p. 858.

With my lord's leave, and his good servant's help,

My limbs would creep to bed.

Abraham [angrily quitting his seat]. In this tent, never. Thou art a thankless and an im'pious man.

Fire-W. [rising in astonishment]. A thankless and an impious man! O sir,

My thanks have all but worship'd thee.

Abraham.

And whom

Forgotten? like the fawning dog I feed.
From the foot-washing to the meal, and now
To this thy cramm'd and dog-like wish for bed,
I've noted thee; and never hast thou breathed
One syllable of prayer, or praise, or thanks,
To the great God who made and feedèth all.
Fire-W. O sir, the god I worship is the Fire,
The god of gods; and seeing him not here,
In any symbol, or on any shrine,

I waited till he bless'd mine eyes at morn,
Sitting in heaven.

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And darest thou still to breathe in Abraham's tent?
Forth with thee, wretch; for he that made thy god,
And all thy tribe and all the host of heaven,
The invisible and only dreadful God,

Will speak to thee this night, out in the storm,
And try thee in thy foolish god, the Fire,
Which with his fingers he makes lightnings of.
Hark to the rising of his robes, the winds,
And get thee forth, and wait him.

Fire- W.

[A violent storm is heard rising, What! unhoused;

And on a night like this! me, poor old man,

A hundred years of age!

Abraham [urging him away]. Not reverencing

The God of ages, thou revoltèst reverence.

Fire- W. Thou hadst a father;-think of his gray hairs,

Houseless, and cuff'd by such a storm as this.

Abraham. God is thy father, and thou own st not him.
Fire-W. I have a wife, as agèd as myself,

And if she learn my death, she'll not survive it,
No, Lot a day; she is so used to me;

So propp'd up by her other feeble self.

I pray thee, strike us not both down.
Abraham [still urging him].

God made

Husband and wife, and must be own'd of them,
Else he must needs disown them.

Fire-W.

We have children,

One of them, sir, a daughter, who, next week,

Will all day long be going in and out,

Upon the watch for me; she, too, a wife,

And will be soon a mother. Spare, oh spare her!
She's a good creature, and not strong.

Mine cars

Abraham.
Are deaf to all things but thy blasphemy,
And to the coming of the Lord and God,
Who will this night condemn thee.

[ABRAHAM pushes him out;

and remains alone, speaking. For if ever

God came at night-time förth upon the world,
'Tis now this instant. Hark to the huge winds,
The cataracts of hail, and rocky thunder,
Splitting like quarries of the stony clouds,
Beneath the touching of the foot of God!
That was God's speaking in the heavens,—that last
And inward utterance coming by itself.
What is it shakèth thus thy servant, Lord,
Making him fear, that in some loud rebuke
To this idolater, whom thou abhorrest,
Terror will slay himself? Lo, the earth quakes.
Beneath my feet, and God is surely here.

[A dead silence; and then a still small voice

The Voice. Abraham!

Abraham. Where art thou, Lord? and who is it that speaks So sweetly in mine ear, to bid me turn

And dare to face thy presence?

The Voice.

Who but He

Whose mightiest utterance thou hast yet to learn?

I was not in the whirlwind, Abraham ;

I was not in the thunder, or the earthquake;
But I am in the still small voice.

Where is the stränger whom thou tookèst in?

Abraham. Lord, he denied thee, and I drove him forth.

The Voice. Then didst thou do what God himself forbore.

Have I, although he did deny me, borne

With his injuriousness these hundred years,

And couldst thou not endure him one sole night,

And such a night as this?

Abraham.

Lord! I have sinn'd,

And will go forth, and if he be not dead,

Will call him back, and tell him of thy mercies

Both to himself and me.

The Voice.

Behold, and learn!

[The Voice retires while it is speaking; and a fold of the tent is
turned back, disclosing the FIRE-WORSHIPER, who is calmly
sleeping, with his head on the back of a house-lamb.
Abraham. O loving God! the lamb itself's his pillow,
And on his forehead is a balmy dew,

And in his sleep he smilèth. I, meantime,
Poor and proud fool, with my presumptuous hands
Not God's, was dealing judgments on his head,
Which God himself had cradled!—Oh, methinks
There's more in this than prophet yet hath known,
And Faith, some day, will all in Love be shown.

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HOUSEHOLD WORDS

175. ADDRESS TO THE INDOLENT.1

S not the field with lively culture green
A sight more joyous than the dead morăss' }
Do not the skies, with active e'ther clean,

And fann'd by sprightly zephyrs, far surpass2
The foul November fögs, and slumberous mass,
With which sad Nature vails her drooping face?
Does not the mountain-stream, as clear as glass,
Gay dancing on, the putrid pool disgrace?—
The same in all holds true, but chief in human race.

'From "The Castle of Indolence."-Sur påss'.- Måss.--Glass. --•Dân' cing.

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